Another Trip Around the Sun

At 7:30 this morning, I strapped on my space suit and embarked on my forty-sixth orbit.

Common American folklore says that the milestone birthdays, the ones that end in zeros, are supposed to be the hard ones. For these you get the parties, the balloons, the special birthday cards that make jokes about your age. But those didn’t bother me so much. The twenty-fives, the thirty fives were, and – gulp – the forty-fives are a bitch. Because it bumps me up a demographic box. Once advertisers wanted me to spend my disposable dollars on beer and impractical footwear, I’m now in the target market for wrinkle-blasting cosmetics, bladder-control medication and comfortable shoes.

Holy Christ.

Thirty didn’t bother me. In some parts of life, women in their thirties – solid, responsible, know what they want - are taken more seriously than ones in their twenties, who are often seen as flighty and fickle.

I know that I was. Damn, I did some stupid things in my twenties, most notably my early twenties. Most of them I’ve forgiven myself for. Some of which have consequences I will carry with me the rest of my life. But that’s part of life, isn’t it?

In fact, I loved being thirty. I could finally tuck that piece of my younger adulthood behind me. I had a decent job and a decent boss, my own car, had paid off at least the financial debts from my days of irresponsibility. I stood tall with my cellophaned auburn hair (not gray enough yet to warrant stronger measures), could climb a mountain, spelunk a cave, weather an injury, down a margarita, write a novel. The vat of wrinkle cream my aunt sent me as a present only made me frown for a second, then I laughed it away and drove to Boston for the weekend.

The approach of my fortieth I took as a challenge. At first, I mourned the potential end of my “babe” years. Thought I’d have to tuck away the white denim bustier, the lycra miniskirt, have to learn to deal with the “Era of Invisibility,” when teenaged boys practically walk right through you because you seem to no longer exist. Too gray now for the band-aid of a cellophane treatment, I had to go for the hard stuff to maintain my “natural” color. To combat this, I joined Weight Watchers to take off the pounds I’d let accumulate (not that many, but with so much diabetes in my family, even a few extra could increase the odds of onset). Because, damn it, I wasn’t going quietly into invisiblehood.

And then I realized “babe” isn’t a number. It’s not a dress size, or a hair color, or a body fat ratio. It’s all in your head. And then I kicked myself for not knowing this in my twenties and thirties. And I put on a sexy top from H&M and went to fortieth birthday party with my auburn head held high.

And things have been going steadily downhill since. No. I take that back. Not “downhill.” There are just more facts of getting older to weather. More passages to pass. More hills to climb.

But still a part of me remains optimistic. That I’ll navigate through this meteor shower and then fifty will be fabulous.

So here’s to another orbit. Let’s hope this one has fewer asteroids.

Hey…who’s that babe in the space capsule?